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Just before the threat of war, children were taken to what was thought safe areas. My brother and I were sent to the country for a week. It was exciting for us children, going on holiday, Mum said. I was 7 years old, my brother was 5 and two others at home were 4 and 2. We were packed off with a brown paper bag - with string handles — with a few clothes and some fruit. We stayed at a farm somewhere in the country but we soon came back because we missed our home and family so much and didn’t like the quiet. We’d always been used to lots of folks being about — my family were all Pearly Kings and Queens and there was always lots going on in our lives. We came home to Bermondsey. The bombs had started. We had news that we’d soon be getting an air-raid shelter so we got busy digging a great big hole in the garden to put it in. We thought it was fun filling in the sides with soil. Then we had to make it habitable but it was always filling up with water. We did have a kind of bed in there as raids always seemed to happen at night. There were no lights - just candles. And there was no heat so we were always cold. After the night raids we would get up to find houses gone and the streets covered with hosepipes.
After our first house was bombed we had what remained of our furniture put into storage and went to live in furnished rooms in a three-storey house where there was only one shelter between three families. The one man worked nights and slept in the shelter during the day, so if we had a raid we had to go to the street shelter. We had a large pram where the little ones slept. There was a mattress on the floor where my brother and I slept; and my mother slept on a chair.
Dad had gone into the army so Mum had to cope on her own with yet another baby on the way. Mum always kept a few clothes, a bit of food and her treasured possessions in the base of the pram. One morning we came out of the shelter to find that the house had gone. We belonged to a Mission Church, so we stayed in the hall for a few days.
School was great because we hardly ever went; I think it was only a couple of half days a week as some folks were living in the schools.
I recall men coming to take all the railings away, and also lots of aluminium pots and pans piled up in the streets. These were to make aircraft bombs.
Gas masks were frightening. The younger children had Mickey Mouse ones; I had a grown up one which I hated, and babies had one like an incubator. By now we had our new baby — her gas mask took up nearly all the pram and because it was too much trouble, Mum never took it out with us. But if you were out in a raid the air-raid warden would make you go back and fetch it.
As we lived near the railway we were targets for the bombs. We were always told we should evacuate — a horrible word. We children didn’t quite know what it meant but Mum always said “No! No! No!” At last our vicar friend said he knew of someone living in Surrey that could look after the two oldest ones for a short time. It would not be called ‘evacuated’ as they were just looking after us. Mum said ok as things were getting bad. London was not a safe place to be. She would stay in London with the three smaller ones, and at least we would be safe. So my brother and I were sent to a village in Surrey. A stern looking lady with a sit-up-and-beg bike met us at the station. We walked down a lane which seemed to go on for miles and eventually arrived at a bungalow that had crab apples growing all round the side which we were told not to touch. We both started to cry and wanted to go back home but knew we had no home. Around teatime a young man came in who we were to call Uncle Louis. We were told to look at him when we spoke as although he was deaf he could lip read. Aunty Ann was also hard of hearing so we had to shout at her — what had we come to!
We went to the local school and church three times on Sunday. We were given sixpence each week by the preacher and made friends with the children. We were able to write to Mum at the Mission where she was living, and on the whole we had a good time.
One day we were told we had to go back to London as the whole family was to be evacuated to another place in the country. We would all be safe. We were sorry to leave as we were fond of Aunty and Uncle. We stayed in London for one night before the family were put on a train for the super safe haven of Wolverhampton. The train stopped at Tettenhall Halt and buses took us to New Cross Hospital — an old building like a prison — we did not like it at all. It was only for one night as we should all be in a nice house the next day. We slept in a ward three to a bed and next day were taken to Tettenhall golf club where there were other families waiting to go into private homes. Some Mothers were housed with their children, and some children went to families, but we were a large family and no one wanted us and we had to spend the night in the golf club.
Next day off again to a place called Finchfield. Three houses belonging to Butler’s Brewery which had been empty for some time were given to us — six families in the three houses. All sorts of items were given to us by Tettenhall Council. We settled down in what we thought was our safe place but then were told we were to have a Morrison Shelter, a huge thing that filled half the room. Oh dear, did this mean we were no longer away from the bombing! We were assured we were safe but then we were living next door to the warden’s post.
Memories of the children at school laughing at my strong Cockney accent…… must say we laughed back when we tried to understand the local way of speaking. Then we made friends at school which was at Tettenhall Wood a long walk from Finchfield and I’m happy to say I still have the same pals sixty four years on.

[This story was submitted to the the People's War site by Wolverhampton Libraries on behalf of Joyce Morgan and has been added to the site with her permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions]

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